


A Note in the Wall

by axton_loves_shipping



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 11:11:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7358854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/axton_loves_shipping/pseuds/axton_loves_shipping
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It could've been fate that brought him to that small cafe in Lawrence, Kansas. Hell, it could've been his crazy idea of writing something so dark in the public eye. But when the blue eyed barista gives him an ultimatum, Dean decides that maybe this is what he needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Note in the Wall

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off of a cafe I used to frequent in this tiny town of Manteca, California. To my surprise, it's actually still there. Everything else in this story should be viewed as fictitious.

The primordial event, at the beginning of an end, is sunrise. The burning ball of pure plasma that scorches one’s eyes and warms the soul, everything Dean wanted to experience. The way the dark blues and purples faded into the light pink streaks and orange glow of the sun. He smiled at the sky, watching the sun slowly peak over the horizon. Why he’d choose the place, he didn’t understand.

‘But,’ he thought, ‘who do I talk to about perfect places to write my last works?’ It wasn’t unusual for him to be up before the crack of the new day, it was his work. His passion. His burden.

The clicking of a lock brought him out of his thoughts. He looked away from the sky to see a man opening the door of Café Aroma, one of the quietest coffee shops in town. He looked towards the sky and sighed. He held onto the messenger bag slopped on his shoulder, and he walked inside the café. He looked around at the empty tables and booths, and he quietly walked to a booth settled down in a dark corner, where he wouldn’t be disturbed. Sitting down, he laid his bag on the table and pulled out a small notebook, a pen, and an envelope. He took one small glance at the envelope before laying it back down in his bag. He cracked his knuckles, and began to write.

'Dear Sam,'

He set his pen down, shook his head, scratched out the two words, and began to write again.

' ~~Dear Sam~~ , To Whom It May Concern,'

He stopped again, scratched out the heading, and sighed. He set his pen down and rubbed his face with his hands, looking around. He noticed next to him was a piece of wood paneling that had begun to bow back, from the hundreds of fingers before his, picking at the corner. When he realized that the one person in the building was occupied, he pulled the piece back and let out a small smile as it bowed. He began to write again, the familiar scratching noise of pen to paper easing his concentration.

' ~~Dear Sam, To Whom It May Concern~~ ,  
                                       To whoever may find this,  
My name is Dean Winchester, and I’m leaving my life to you.'

“Excuse me, sir?”

A voice made Dean jump in his seat, and he quickly covered his work. He smiled up to the man, and he was at a loss for words. Eyes as blue as the sky he saw just an hour ago met his own, magnified from being behind the frames of thin Ray Bans. Dean soon became self -conscious. Hair as dark as the smudge of chocolate on his cheek, face littered with soft freckles, and the sweetest of smiles on his face, Dean’s breath caught in his throat. He looked over at his nametag, a piece of plastic with ‘Castiel’ scribbled in Sharpie Dean looked back to Castiel.

“I’m quite sorry to interrupt you, but, would you like something to eat or drink?”

Dean finally let out a breath. Castiel’s voice was soft, as if he was talking to a startled animal, and Dean swore he could taste the minty toothpaste on his breath. Dean nodded and hastily grabbed the menu tucked into the holder, eyes falling on an all-too-familiar three letter word, and he gave Castiel a smile.

“The pie. A slice of apple, warm, please.” Dean soon realized his voice was shaking, coming out almost as a small whimper. “And a cup of coffee, black.”

“Alright, a cup of joe and hot apple pie.” Castiel had pulled out a small notepad and wrote down the simple order. Dean stared at the man’s fingers, slender digits gripping the pen, turning his tanned skin white. Castiel gave Dean a smile, and he walked away. It was only when he had gone back behind the counter that Dean had realized he was alone in the café.

He pulled out the envelope and stared at it again. He looked at the man working behind the counter, to the envelope, then down to the failing wood. He knew he had a choice. He wasn’t a very well-known author; he’d only sold a few hundred books at a time. No one read his poetry, no one listened to him at open mic nights, and no one ever paid attention to the starving artist writing on the roof of an apartment complex. His brother had left him for a law degree and a girl he’d only known for a few weeks. Dean’s grip tightened on the envelope, wrinkling it slightly. The woman who was responsible for the reason he was here, the woman who took away his only surviving family member. His concentration was broken when Castiel had brought Dean a hot cup of coffee and a rather thick slice of apple pie, so warm he could see the butter melting on the crust. He couldn’t help the smile that spread across his lips.

“This looks amazing, thank you,” Dean’s gratitude was sincere. Castiel set down a fork and he gave Dean a polite smile. He walked back to his counter, and Dean grabbed the fork. He licked his lips slightly and stared at the slice before him. He slowly cut off a piece at the tip and he brought it to his lips. He took his bite and his eyes closed. It was just like his mother’s recipe. Crust was crispy and buttery, almost melted in his mouth, while the sauce that coated the apple had more cinnamon than sugar, making it spicier and warm, and the apples of a sweeter variety than the traditional Granny Smith greens. Memories of his mother making pie flooded his mind, filling his senses with love and joy, and he could almost feel her reassuring hand on his shoulder, telling him how much she loved him.

He opened his eyes and he looked down to his plate. He couldn’t believe how a bite of pie could make him feel so good. He began to scoop larger bites into his mouth, shoveling the pie into his mouth, until he was down to nothing, and he looked around the café to see if he was still alone. He wiped his finger on his plate, sucking the sauce from his finger. He cleaned his hands on a napkin. Picking up his pen, he decided to go through with his note. He scratched the name off of the envelope, scribbling three letters on the paper.

' ~~Dear Sam, To Whom It May Concern~~ ,  
                                      To whoever may find this,  
My name is Dean Winchester, and I’m leaving my life to you. I see the light behind this darkness I’ve been living,  
starving in my own art, feeding off of the lives of others. I do feel my charade has come to an end, with no money to  
spare except for one last meal, I feel as if my life has been wasted on something I can never touch. I’m struggling  
for words to say to comfort Sammy. But this isn’t for Sammy. This is for whoever will listen. No one has listened  
so far. So, please, spare me the pity. I just want one person to care about this piece.'

Dean was contemplating suicide over a slice of pie and a cup of coffee, as his chosen last meal, and he dropped his pen. A few people had come and gone, glancing at him, and he stared at his piece of paper with his scribbled handwriting on it. Castiel had come by to take his plate, and he noticed the untouched coffee.

“Sir, would you like a different blend? I know not a lot of people like this particular breakfast brew, but I could give you something else?” Castiel was hesitant again, not wanting to scare Dean. When Dean realized Castiel was standing over him, he shook his head.

“No, no, sorry. It’s okay; I’d like some more pie, if that’s okay.” He smiled and handed him his plate. The man took it and nodded, giving him a smile in return. He walked away and Dean sighed, staring back at him. He looked down at his writing so far and groaned.

His thoughts drifted back to the pie, the way it reminded him of his mother, how she would feel if she found out about Dean’s intentions. He could already hear her scolding him, just like she was giving him a kiss on the cheek. He could hear her voice in his ear, as silky as the gown she was wearing the night of the fire. He closed his eyes and swallowed thickly. When he opened his eyes, another slice of heaven sat in front of him, with a new fork. He picked up his fork, deciding this time to take it slow. He began to take bites of his pie, pausing between bites to savor the memories that came back, and he remembered the reasons his mother made pie.

Bite.

January 24th, 1982.

Dean had received a bike for his birthday, one that had cost John two weeks salary, one that he had bought at a second hand store that Mary frequented. Rusted around the handle bars, a chain that groaned when pedaled too hard, and the perfect black color to match John’s Chevy Impala, it was almost Dean’s dream bike. Almost. Because once Dean took off down the driveway, a few of the spokes had fallen apart, making him skid to a halt and falling off of his bike, into the asphalt. He had come running in to his mother’s arms and she sat him down in the bathroom, carefully washing his scrape. It was the first time Dean had a slice of that beautiful pie.

Bite.

August 26th, 1982.

Dean had awoken to the sounds of his mother crying. He stood up from his bed and tiptoed to John and Mary’s room, where he found his mother standing at the sink with three plastic-coated popsicle sticks. His mother, though, saw him through the mirror, and she kneeled in front of him, hugging the boy. When John had come home from work, the three of them sat in the living room of their tiny house, sharing pie. Mary told them she was pregnant, and John and Dean couldn’t stop hugging her.

Bite.

January 3rd, 1983.

The house had been quiet the day after New Year’s; Mary was folding Dean’s old baby clothes for their new baby boy on the way, Samuel Francis Winchester. John had insisted on following Mary’s tradition in names, seeing as Dean was named after her mother. Dean was playing with little toy army men John had collected, when John had walked into the house, a bright and beaming smile on his face, one that usually meant something great had happened. Dean had jumped into John’s arms and John, in turn, gave Mary a soft kiss on the cheek. “I got it, honey. I’m starting at a little over $5.30 an hour, but it should work.” Of course, Mary had slices of pie to go around.

Bite.

February 14th, 1983.

Dean stared out the back windshield as their neighborhood passed them by. Both John and Mary had decided that their tiny, one story house wasn’t going to work for two growing boys. With the money they had saved, John from working at the mechanics shop, Mary from the blankets she sewed for the flea markets, they had found the perfect home, with Dean’s approval as well. A big, two story house with three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and two huge yards for Dean to play football and Army with John. But, even as happy as Dean was to help pick their new home, he wasn’t ready to let go of their yellow sun in a sea of grey clouds. So, in an act of rebellion, Dean had ‘modified’ John’s Impala to his taste. When his mother had turned on the air conditioning, little rattles had Dean in fits of laughter. “I found my Legos, papa.”

Dean was never happier to receive a slice of pie in his life.

Bite.

February 15th, 1983.

Lawrence, Kansas. A quiet, suburbia city, home to mostly World War II and Vietnam veterans. Mary and John were the first to get out of the car and look at the outside of their new house. Wilting bushes lined the walkway into their home, and the paint on the siding and pillars were pealing. The blue siding was coming off in pieces, and John hummed softly. It was his plan to take two days off work to help them get settled and fix every little thing up. Dean got out of the car, picking up the box of toys he was allowed to bring for their first day home. John helped Mary up the few steps to their home, Dean close behind. Mary took to nesting immediately, having brought baking supplies the night before. They all shared a fresh pie on pieces of paper towels, using a cardboard box for a table.

Bite.

November 1st, 1983.

John and Mary were sitting in the living room of their new home, with a babbling, 6 month old Sammy Winchester. Dean had come in with one of Sam’s favorite toy, a small stuffed lion. The three of them were trying to coax the baby into taking a step on his own. They’d seen this day coming for a little while, since the boy could pull himself up with a sturdy assistance. Mary helped Sam up and Dean sat near one end of the couch, cooing to Sam and showing him the stuffed lion. Sam’s eyes lit up, a gummy smile showing two bottom teeth peeking up, and he let go of Mary. He reached out for the toy and took two shaky steps towards Dean before falling on his bottom. Sam learned what cinnamon tasted like for the first time.

Dean looked down to his empty plate and sighed, setting his fork down again. With tears brimming at the corner of his eyes, he looked down at his blurry paper. He hadn’t noticed how much time had passed from his reminiscing, because now Castiel was sitting across from him, trying to have a small conversation with the man who is crying over a slice of pie. Dean jumped up when he heard Castiel ask him a question. Flustered, Dean looked up.

“I-I’m sorry?”

Castiel gave him a soft smile.

“Are you okay?” The question was simple enough, but Dean couldn’t find an honest answer.

“Oh, uh, yeah, writer’s block, s’all.”

Castiel nodded and stood up.

“We close in a few minutes; you think a few minutes will work?”

Dean gave him a slight nod and got to work, now knowing what to write.

~*~  
Dean had left at exactly 6 pm, heart thudding in his chest. He’d shoved the envelope in the wood hastily, hoping Castiel hadn’t noticed. He walked home with a hole in the pit of stomach, fingers wrapped around his phone in a white knuckled grip.

~*~  
Castiel locked up at exactly 6:05 pm, which was a record for him. Normally, the writers and poets of the town would stay way past closing, usually offering money and press in exchange of a few more minutes of literary process. But, the man with emeralds for eyes and thousands of freckles on his nose and cheeks was different. He’d seem scared to waste Castiel’s time. It was then and only then he glanced to the empty booth and saw a curl of white mixed into the dark wood. Thinking he had left behind something important, Castiel walked to the booth, only to be dumbfounded as the streak of white turned out to be an envelope, folded and shoved into the paneling.  
He leaned back into the booth and turned the parchment over in his hands. In the beautiful handwriting he could only make out to be as the man’s, he saw the label. A name, Sam, had been crossed out and replaced with CAS. Castiel’s hands began to shake, and he opened the envelope, carefully unfolding the paper inside.

' ~~Dear Sam, To Whom It May Concern,~~  
                                ~~To whoever may find this,~~                       CAS,  
My name is Dean Winchester, and I’m leaving my life to you. I see the light behind this darkness ~~I’ve been living, starving in my own art, feeding off of the lives of others~~ , and it’s your kindness. I do feel my charade has come to an end, with no money to spare except for one last meal, I feel as if my life has ~~been wasted on something I can never touch~~ never had as much meaning as today. ~~I’m struggling for words to say to comfort Sammy. But this isn’t for Sammy~~. This is for ~~whoever will listen~~ you. No one has listened so far. ~~So, please, spare me the pity.~~ But, you may listen, now. This was meant to be the means of an end, but, as I see it now, I see it as means of a beginning. That apple pie you witnessed me crying over was more than a slice of pie. It was a piece of hope, of home, that I’d lost a long time ago. I appreciate you giving me that second slice; I saw you paid for it on my receipt. That second slice of pie, as crazy as this may sound, made me remember things I forgot a long time ago. You made me remember family. Even as happy as it made me, it also made me rethink something I had planned long before this morning. So, if you wouldn’t mind my asking, contact this number at your earliest convenience. I would like to personally meet the angel with blue eyes and a killer pie recipe.

Signed,

Dean Winchester'

~*~  
Three rings later, the phone clicks.

“Dean?”

“Hey, Cas.”


End file.
